


Someone Remembers

by tiredRobin



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: (they get hurt sometimes), A Lot of Different Headcanons, Additional tags will be added, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Everything Sucks Usually, Fic Compilation, Mute Frisk, Nonbinary Frisk, POV Alternating, POV Second Person, POV Third Person, Timelines, ill edit tags as i go along tbh theres too many to remember, these tags are messy and unorganized
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-21 23:58:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6062998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiredRobin/pseuds/tiredRobin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a compilation of all my incomplete scrapfics! I have a lot in my phone and on Google Docs, and some of them I'm rather proud of. I wanted to share them. </p><p>Description of each fic is in the notes at the beginning of each chapter, as well as tags and word count.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. RESETS

**Author's Note:**

> Words: 763  
> Tags: Sad Frisk, also Frisk can talk in this one, I prefer a mute Frisk but shh, Frisk Can't Stop the Resets, They Are Really Heckin' Sad Okay
> 
> No one beta'd this. It's all me, so if it sucks, that's on me. Winks.

"It keeps resetting."

The words stop him short, outstretched hand hanging in the air, awaiting a handshake that would never come. They're looking at him, expression contorted with a deep-seated sadness and weariness, something of which he had never before seen in such a young face.

"It doesn't matter what I do. It-it doesn't matter what-what I say, o-or what path I take, or what I ch-change," They're quickly devolving into tears, and Sans can only let his hand fall to his side and stare in bewilderment. "It d-doesn't matter if-if I'm good, or w-when I'm b-b-bad, it-it doesn't stop, S-Sans," They say his name like they know him, and he finds himself wondering if they do, "it k-keeps resetting, and-and I don't—I-I-I c-can't—" They stumble to stop, choking on their words, and then they slump forward and wrap their arms around themself, sobbing.

He just stares.

Slowly, the words sink in, and his eyes widen with realization and understanding, but he's still just staring at them while they shake and sob and suffer through an absolute breakdown right in front of him, bawling into the sleeves of their sweater. They keep trying to say things, he thinks, but all he can pick up is stuttered apologies and broken, disjointed sentences, and it reaches a point where they give up and just cry.

He finds himself wrapping them in a hug without thinking too much about it and they cling to him, weeping so hard they seem barely able to breathe.

It takes a while, but they finally seem to calm down enough to where they're only hiccuping, tears leaking slowly from their eyes, and they don't pull away. He keeps his arms around them because it feels like the right thing to do, and he doesn't break the silence between them. 

"What's my name?" They finally whisper, quiet voice muffled further the fabric of his jacket.

"Frisk," He says, automatically, and a jolt shoots down his spine.

Their shoulders shake like they're crying again, but after a second he realizes that they're laughing. It breaks off into a sob and they fall silent again.

He hates this kind of silence, he decides. 

"She's killed me before," They say eventually, and then, "And you've killed me, too." He goes rigid, and they shake their head. "S'my fault," the human—Frisk, he reminds himself—mutters. Their grip on his jacket tightens and they shake their head again, though to what he isn't sure. He thinks they're about to add more, but they don't and, as the silence thickens and weighs down on them, he realizes that it's his turn to speak.

"Has this happened before?" He asks, and they shake their head again. He's quiet for a moment. "Have I ever remembered?"

At that, they laugh, but it's a broken sound. "Sometimes," They reply, and their voice is watery. "Sometimes you remember. It's never good on you when you do, though." They breathe out. "I've seen the same sunset at least a hundred times. You too."

His gaze drifts upwards, towards the cavernous ceiling hidden in deep shadows. He stays quiet; something in the back of his mind, deep within his subconscious, tells him that they aren't prone to speaking, and that the only way to help is to let them talk at their own pace.

"It keeps resetting," They whisper again, and they swallow thickly. They're still crying, tears dripping down their cheeks and leaving dark spots in his jacket, but now they're quiet about it.

"I've gotten to twenty before, I think. It's been awhile since that one, so I'm not sure, but I think I had a twentieth birthday. I-I never learned how to drive." Their laugh is hollow, and it sends another shiver down his spine. "I k-keep saving everyone, Sans, I keep doing w-what I h-have to do, what I w-wanted to do in the beginning, b-but it d-doesn't matter, it n-never seems to m-matter."

"Hey, no, it matters," He starts, but they interrupt with a sharp, "It _doesn't.”_

Neither say anything for a long time.

It would have continued like that for an indefinite amount of time had he not spotted his brother approaching in the distance, so Sans wordlessly scoops the kid up and into his arms. They jolt in surprise and then quickly relax, wrapping their arms around his neck and their legs around his waist, noiselessly letting him know that this is okay. He shifts them in his arms until he's sure he has a good grip on them, and then he starts towards his brother.


	2. Can't Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nights are the hardest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words: 1143  
> Tags: POV Third Person, Frisk is sad again, Blood, dust, nightmares, this time they're mute but they don't even say/sign anything I just wanted everyone to know, shrugs a whole lot

The house is quiet.

They stare up at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, fists tightly wrapped in their bed sheets. The digital clock on their bedside flickers **3:29 AM**. They hear the soft sound of a car passing by the street. Something pops, creaks, and they try not to choke on their own breath. 

An age passes. They glance at the clock, and it shines a tired **3:30 AM** back.

Bare feet tap onto the cool hardwood floor. They pause, hesitate, hover over their slippers contemplatively before shaking their head and creeping to their bedroom door. The soft sound it makes when they pull it open causes them to wince, the noise deafening to their ears, but they know that there's no way anyone heard them.

They pad downstairs, feet carefully navigating around and over the parts that creak the loudest, and when they reach the bottom they make a beeline for the door. Again, they hover, hesitate, eyeing their shoes with a questioning quirk of their lips. Winter is near, autumn is close to its end, and the air outside is sharp and chilly.

They consider that Momma would scold them tenfold if she found out they went out without anything warm, so they dig out their socks from their boots and slip those on, and then they pull on their sneakers. They unhook their coat from the door and pull it over their pajamas, which are covered in stars, given to them as a gift from Papyrus when the tall skeleton learned of Frisk's love with the night sky.

Satisfied that they've prepared well enough, Frisk quietly slips out the front door.

 

The walk to the park isn't far.

They always go there first on their nightly explorations. It's not their favorite place—the nearby forest is—but they always start with the park. The swings are fun, even if the chain sometimes pinches at their fingers, and they like to climb the huge ancient oak that everyone jokes is older than Asgore and Momma combined.

They wonder if it's true. They have no idea how old Asgore and Momma are.

The wind is colder than they'd expected and they pull their arms close to themself, hunching forward slightly. They're not sure they want to swing in this weather, or even climb the tree, and they consider turning back or taking a shorter route to the forest—but, no, they decide. Neither is Momma-approved safe at night, but the park is the safest. 

 

Sans doesn't remember, but they know that he knows, and they know that he knows that they know.

Haha. 

Their hands clench into little fists— _in one, the memory of a knife, handle warmed by their tightened grip_ —and they want to punch something solid, something that will hurt them but also something they can't hurt, so they turn and they throw their fist at the old giant oak with as much force as they can muster.

The rough bark bites into their knuckles. They pull back, punch again, harder. They raise their other fist and slam it into the living-not-sentient being, and then they start punching with both in earnest. Again, again, again, and it starts to hurt both their hands awful bad and they feel something warm and wet drip down their fingers, but they don't stop hitting the tree until they pull their fist away once more and a small piece of bark follows after it, flutter-falling to the leafy ground— _like dust, too little to have weight, unimportant, inconsequential_ —and they feel a flash of guilt. It doesn't hurt the tree, they know it doesn't, and they can't even make out the small, thin piece of bark in the darkness, but they still feel bad.

They look at their fists.

Both are bloody—both sting—both hurt in a bad-good way that they hate-like, that they hate that they like. They almost go to lick some of the blood off, but that's gross and they stop themself and slowly uncurl their fingers. It takes a second—they'd had them closed so tightly their hands seemed to have forgotten how to open.

They can't stick them back in their coat pockets now, else they'd get the inside of the pocket space bloody, and they know blood doesn't wash out. They drop their hands limply by their side instead, careful not to let the bloody bits brush against their pajama pants, and they set out towards the swings.

 

He find them there. He doesn't always, but he does enough, and they're swinging side to side instead of forward and back because it's—it's not more fun, but it occupies their attention and requires more effort to accomplish, and they get caught up in the sway of it and sometimes forget what they're thinking—and they don't look up even when they feel like they know he's there.

"Kiddo," he says, and they can't place the tone of his voice. They look up, and he's looking at their hands, which grip the chain tightly. Their knuckles had stopped bleeding an hour ago, and the blood is caked on and dry and gross, but they don't care.

They try not to care. 

He holds out a hand. They want to flinch, almost, but instead they just stare at it, and their careful side-swinging loses its pattern and slowly, slowly circles to a stop. Then they're just sitting there, his bony hand outstretched like it hasn't been nearly three minutes.

"Lets get you home," he prompts, and jostles his hand a little. 

They don't want to go home. Home means going back to bed, and going back to bed means thinking, and thinking means having nightmares and feeling sick and needing to breathe. They shake their head and pointedly start swinging, forward and back instead of side to side this time. 

Sans lets his hand drop and he sighs. "Alright. Guess I'll join you," and he goes and he sits on the swing next to them. Bony fingers wrap around metal chains and they wonder, briefly, if he'd melt into dust if a finger got pinched by the chain link. The idea makes their insides twist— _dust, dust everywhere, mixed in snow and running in water and choking the already suffocatingly hot air_ —so they look away and at their feet instead of at him.

Silence reigns once more, broken only by the creak of their swings and the occasional scuff their shoed feet make against the sand when they push themself to go a little higher. Their legs swing, their fingers are frozen, and the icy air is sharp in their lungs—they lift their head to stare at the stars, but there are too many clouds and all they see is a deep, black, empty expanse of nothingness.

It reminds them of the Underground. Their breath catches. They look at their shoes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, this one holds a special place in my heart. I like it a lot. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Comments and critique appreciated.


	3. Puzzle Player

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You like puzzles, but Chara likes them more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words: 633  
> Tags: Soft Chara, Spectator Chara/Flavor Text Chara, Sharing a Body, Chara can project themself, Chara likes puzzles, they're great, this one isn't sad
> 
> This one is sweet! I really like soft Chara. What a precious child.

Chara likes puzzles.

Not exactly the same type of puzzles Papyrus likes—though they do enjoy those plenty—but riddles. Quizzes. They like to solve mysteries, figure out patterns, find the answer through a series of tests. You learned this quickly—they want you to solve the puzzles yourself, to find the patterns and the right ways to do things on your own, and so you do.

They don't just watch, though. When you fall down the pit puzzle one too many times and twist your ankle, they're the one to get to your feet, they're the one to take the brunt of the pain, they're the one to gently guide you through it, to stop you from making a misstep, to help you to the end without getting hurt again. They're kind of gruff about it, in an _ugh-you-should-be-able-to-do-this-yourself_ kind of way, but they always seem to know when you need help.

 

You stare at the word search with furrowed brows and a wrinkled nose, their projection leaning over your shoulder. You had tried sitting in the snow, but it was far too cold for that so you just remained crouched instead, the word search propped on your knees.

_"Whats wrong?"_ They ask, when you don't make any move to solve it.

_Don't have a pencil,_ you think back. 

_"Oh, yeah. Huh."_ They're quiet for a second, and then they point a translucent finger at a string of letters. _"It says 'spring' there."_

You can't help but giggle into your hand. You're about to look up and see if either of the skeletons watching you might have one, but then your eyes catch sight of something in the snow that you're sure wasn't there before. You grab it and are surprised to find that it's a pencil, and you tilt your head a little and side-eye Chara and smile.

_"We—you don't actually need to do this, y'know,"_ they say, even as their projection crouches down beside you. _"There's nothing stopping you from getting up and walking towards them."_

You shrug and circle "spring" in the jumble of letters. _It's a puzzle,_ you think back. 

They sigh, but it isn't long until you have them helping you with it. You both completely forget about the skeleton brothers in a matter of minutes—they seem to pick out the words faster than you, but they also let you find them yourself rather than giving you the answer.

They stop you halfway through, though, when you start circling the biggest word. _"Wait, wait, hold on, this isn't..."_ They flap a hand in your face and you pause. _"This can't be solved! The 'u' should be an 'e', see?"_ They point at the offending letters, and they don't add anything more as you stare at the paper. You can feel something like frustration from them, a red-purple blotch in your soul. 

After a second, you get up from your crouch—your knees almost creak from the cold, and you wobble for a second, trying to avoid tripping over frozen feet—and then you step up to the skeletons. The tall one— _"Papyrus,"_ they remind you—looks ready to say something, but when you turn the piece of paper outward and point at the words, he closes his mouth.

"What's the problem, kid?" Sans asks. You jab harder at the paper, frowning at him, and he leans forward to get a better look. You point at the letters that make solving it impossible. "Ah," he starts, "I see the problem."

"Sans!" Papyrus bursts, startling you. "You gave them an unsolvable puzzle!! How is that fair? They can't complete it, and they were working so diligently at it!"

Sans shrugs. "Sorry, bro," he doesn't sound even a little sorry, smile easygoing as ever, "I knew I should have put up today's crossword."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I really hoped you enjoyed.
> 
> Comments and critique appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are appreciated! I would definitely not mind constructive critique (be gentle!), and please point out any mistakes I've made. Thank you, I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
